


if i’m to fall

by falmarien



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: 4+1 Things, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falmarien/pseuds/falmarien
Summary: Four times Steve doesn’t quite know what he’s gotten himself into, and one time he does.





	if i’m to fall

**_one._ **

 

It’s calm on the seas.

It’s always calm on the seas, he thinks, the ever-returning constant of the world.

It’s utterly unsettling.

The crushing of the waves is steady, rocking the boat almost soothingly, but he just can’t seem to bring himself to sleep. The ocean makes him wary now, and he isn’t sure if this boat is sturdy enough for the Mediterranean, not to mention _after_. And it’s a bit cold out here. It isn’t really what one’d call comfortable, this sleeping arrangement; surely more comfortable than what he’d been planning, but still. 

And Diana’s right next to him. They aren’t quite touching, but he’s keenly aware of her nevertheless, mere inches away. Isn’t she cold? She can’t possibly be comfortable wearing that, can she?

He wriggles a bit, arranging his legs into something farther away from imminent spasms, and feels the outline of the notebook digging into his stomach. He twitches a bit more, shifting the notebook ever-so-slightly to a less uncomfortable angle, and finds his hand already reaching out for it without him consciously deciding to do so. 

It’s already happened a couple of times. The book is always there, of course; there’s no reason it won’t be. Thankfully it isn’t too badly damaged in the crash, most of the script still intelligible — whatever language it’s in — and he’ll be first to admit, he’s since grown sort of paranoid about it.

With this in his possession, there isn’t a choice, really, to go back or not. He’d come to the front for a reason.

“What is so important about this book?” Diana had asked, earlier. “What is this gas that you were speaking of?”

He wasn’t sure how to describe the specifics of mustard gas, but he tried. She turned out to be more well-versed in chemistry than he would’ve imagined. She had also asked about guns; with clear distaste and distrust, but she had asked. How it worked, how much damage it could cause, and he tried to explain it to her with words and gestures, all the while thinking of the bodies of her people scattered on the beach, unbelievably strong and utterly unafraid, yet so very mortal. 

Her people.

He still has no idea who they are.

He was on the island for three days, if the sun was to be trusted, and didn’t gain so much as a clue of who they are, where they are from, and what can they do. Well, who they _actually_ are: he’s still wrestling with the idea of the Amazons and what it entails, to be honest. He didn’t dare ask too many questions, fearing that the more he knew, the smaller his chance of getting off the island unscathed.

Among what little he does know, one is that they were strikingly efficient; when he was released from the court, if it could be called as such, the beach was cleaned, the wounded tended to, the bodies properly laid. The funeral was underway the next day. He didn’t want to intrude, but he could hear it from the cave he was staying: songs solemn and sombre, the tunes reaching far and deep, resonating with the rocks and the soil, engulfing and all-encompassing.

He remembered thinking of home, or what he used to call home, of the losses they had endured, and no matter what people they were, they weren’t that different from his people after all.

As for Diana, she doesn’t seem to bear any thought of reservation in mind, opening up to all of his questions — it’s just that all her answers sound absurd, he isn’t really sure he believes them.

...

Fortunately, they make it through the Mediterranean without scrapes.

Winter’s here: the nights are longer, the wind harsher. He lies on the deck, synchronising his breathing with the beat of the waves, trying to fall asleep. And fails.

Time spent on this boat is weirdly both relaxing and agonising: he’s in this state of suspense, cut off from the world and yet, in his possession, is one of the most crucial pieces that actually have a chance to end the war. He’s on his way back to London, yes, and he knows there isn’t anything he can do now, but he still feels guilty, somehow, for... _idling_ , if you will, on this little boat, with this gorgeous _otherworldly_ woman. He distracts himself mostly by striking up conversations with Diana; sooner than he realised they’d found a rhythm, comfortable and easy, which really is kind of a counterintuitive and counterproductive thing to do for his mental dilemma, but what choice does a man have, right?

 

 

**_two._ **

 

She deflected bullets.

_Bullets._

It’s a testament to his resilience, really, that he isn’t as freaked out as he should be.

On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised after all he saw on Paradise Island, but surely… people _died_ there, didn’t they? Because of bullets? Even though all of them had this… bracer thing that Diana wears?

He catches himself sneaking glances at her on their way to the war council, his palm still slightly stinging. It’s no use, her face’s just as neutral as it’s been, her eyes as keen, her steps as determined. Or even more so. Nothing of her has changed significantly, but he feels like it’s as if he were seeing her in a wholly new light. She acts like she’s always known she’s capable of deflecting bullets… but she didn’t even know how a gun works mere three days ago.

Then he remembers her stunned face on the beach, and decides against asking. Not now, at least. 

They’re almost there. He glances at her again, his arm loosely around her back, keeping passersby from bumping into her.

He really hopes he’s not doing the wrong thing bringing her here. She walks the street like she never needs to acquiesce, like no one has ever given her a reason to be afraid. How he wishes it would stay that way. 

 

 

**_three._ **

 

Diana stands out in the crowd on the train platform as much as she does anywhere: lean and tall, bright-eyed, curious but assured. Amidst the sea of scurrying young faces, it’s literally impossible to lose sight of her.

They’re taking the train, then the boat, then another boat — it’s kind of astonishing when you really think about it, he supposes, that this war has been going on for so long that people have figured out a way to live around it. To live _with_ it.

He’s a little worried at the docks, but he doesn’t let it show. She hasn’t actually been exposed to this side of the war, the tangible and the gory of it, soldiers with eyes shocked and lost, their flesh and bones scorched and torn. Even the air is stifling, salty with a taste of the sea and heavy with the smell of sweat and non-healing wounds, all of it laced with late October wind, not quite biting, but enough to remind you it’s only going to get worse.

But so far she seems to be taking it all in with stride — her eyes are large with sympathy, yet unflinching. She never backs off, Steve reminds himself. It’s time for him to stop telling her to stand back.

That being said, Charlie and Sameer aren’t too happy about her coming with them, Steve is aware. He doesn’t really have a way to explain that in any convincing manner, so he sticks to her side, and keeps an eye on all of them. Diana’s even more incongruous here, whole and astonishingly unmarred, not a shadow of weariness to be found. And Charlie, despite his earlier vehement objection of this entire undertaking, is busying himself with pushing others away from Diana. In fact, he’s almost overdoing it, his gesture too firm and too stubborn, single-minded, his face telegraphing all his annoyance at the audacity of other people.

But it’s endearing in its own way, and completely unsurprising that Steve almost smiles to himself. Diana definitely doesn’t need that, he’s sure, but he himself does it too — it is not believing her inability to hold her own that makes him want to keep his arms around her. He realises that now.

Chief’s waiting for them at the rendezvous, and he’s so glad to see him well and alive. Chief, per usual, doesn’t ask too many questions, but Steve can see his eyes, considering and curious; Diana’s the same, only — it’s not exactly guarded, but somewhat more cautious. He wonders if her face has always been this open, or he’s just getting better at reading her.

Only later does he realise he doesn’t know her as well as he’d like to think, she turns back to look at him, her aunt’s headpiece sitting on her brows, plain and proud, and his heart sinks, he —

 

 

**_four._ **

 

“Does this mean we’re married now?”

“Um, no.”

“Didn’t you say sleeping together means getting married? Or was this sleeping another kind of sleeping again?”

“This _was_ that kind of sleeping together, yes, but — we’re not — can you even get married?”

“I’m sure there’s a way, if we need to. Do we need to?”

“No, of course not, not if you don’t want to — would you? I mean, _want_ to?”

“I don’t know. Is it good, being married?”

“I — I’m told it’s good, it can be good, but. Like I told you, I wouldn’t know.”

“In that case,” she says, with finality. “We can decide after. After Ares is killed.”

...

He startles back to consciousness from the sensation of being shaken, he’s on the edge of falling off a boat — it’s Diana, standing by the bed, alert and ready.

Something about her is different, he thinks blearily. She’s fastening her armour, and it’s surreal seeing her like this, her features accented by the dawn, a glowy kind of greyish orange light, hair falling in front of her eyes.

Something in his gut flusters, _lurches_ , and he’s suddenly very awake. 

He remembers thinking, last night: he didn’t call after her because she would listen, but because he couldn’t help it.

This is always going to hurt — somehow, one way or another. 

Steve allows himself five seconds. Then he blinks, gets up, gets dressed, and follows Diana downstairs. 

It hits him when they are still on the stairs, tea and... croissant? How do they even find those here is beyond him, but the room smells amazing, and he jumps a little bit, skipping that final two steps of stairs.

“Morning, lad,” Charlie waves him over, and Sameer gives him a little salute, his mouth full.

“Morning. What’s all this?”

“Breakfast, obviously. This lovely lady insists — _insists_ — we have some before we go, as a thank-you, you see.”

Steve glances at Diana, who’s looking at the pastries with interested eyes. “I still need to plan for today. How long does it take to get to the German High Command?”

“Relax, Steve. The gala’s not until the afternoon, we have enough time. You don’t sneak into a castle full of angry Germans on an empty stomach. Eat something before we go.” Sameer says, leading them to the table. “And I already got you one of those uniforms, you can change after you eat.”

“...Alright. Thanks.”

...

Sameer looks at them, beautiful Steve and fierce Diana, well-rested and soft around the edges, all the tension bled out of them. Steve’s chewing as he listens to Chief outlining several possible routes, and Diana’s chatting with Charlie, but at one point Steve raises an eyebrow at Diana, and she nods, and they share the only piece of bread between them wordlessly, with butter and, unbelievably luxurious if anyone cared to ask him, little sticks of chocolate on it.

Sameer had wanted to be an actor. He’s good at reading people.

 

 

**_five._ **

 

He’s old enough to know what this is, when you can’t help but smile when you look at someone, even if you’re sad, even if you feel so exhausted you can’t quite muster up the energy.

That morning in the inn, he’d thought that something about her had changed. He was wrong. 

Love isn’t anything grand, not in this day and age; love is not even hard, sometimes it feels like the easiest thing remained. 

He will always want to smile, he thinks. It’s just the way it is.

...

He sees the fire, his heart skips, he knows that means they’ve managed to blow up the factory. All the mustard gas left are those on this plane now — ears ringing, he feels giddy, triumphant, and everything seems clear. Surprisingly, achingly clear.

_They’ll be alright. She’ll be alright._

Surrounded by sheer darkness, the world is narrowed down to this cockpit, this little, confined space and the thousands of disasters waiting to happen behind him. He’s still warm from the fight, but his fingers are cold. He pulls out the gun. Steady, but cold. He breathes out.

_You can save the world. You are magnificent. You will save the world._

He closes his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> dug up parts of this from my draft folder BECAUSE OF THE FANNY PACK PICS- i mean, what? what is happening? it seems too early to start worrying but i kind of am so i had to do something to work through that, and here it is. come to think of it, why isn’t it coming out in june like the first one? okay imma stop rambling now-
> 
> (this is gonna sound so weird when i look back a few years from now isn’t it)


End file.
